


Grace

by Causa



Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Causa/pseuds/Causa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sir Galahad proposes to Lady Igraine</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Evenings

**Author's Note:**

> The gameplay could've been longer but I really enjoyed it, so here's a fanfic to celebrate the game.

There was something so graceful about the woman. The way she moved in the heat of battle–quick, competent, confident. As she reloaded her rifle with a strong, fast flick of the hand, a strand of her dark hair fell, coiled, from her bun, sticking to the sweat on her chin. Her grey eyes were narrowed and focused, her hip cocked and knee slightly bent as she peered beyond the platform that served as her cover. Never did she look so beautiful, thought Greyson, as when she was in battle. The air was thick with musk and gunpowder and whizzing bullets and there she was, breathing softly and evenly, about to take her shot. 

A moan and a thud and a short, high exhale–beautiful. Isabeau turned her back to face Greyson with a small grin. 

"Are you just going to keep watching me all day?" 

Greyson felt his face flush. Only her, he thought, lifting his pistol.

"I ran out," he said, motioning to the empty chamber. 

"Easy fix." Isabeau reached into her pocket and withdrew silver bullets in her slender fingertips. 

"Grey–" 

A deep, pressuring heat emanated, now, from his core; he looked down and saw blood pooling at his feet and heard the sound of a cocking gun. It was silent now and as if the world had become grey.

"Greyson, move over!"

He did so, in some direction. Echoes of clashing and painful reverberations entered into his eardrums and he felt as if some weight within him had shifted upward. He twisted his wrist and ran his arm across his back until he wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled tightly. Pain knocked out his breath and he sunk to the ground. 

"The blackwater," he heard Isabeau say, followed by more muffled shots. His arm felt like lead and his vision was blurred; he clawed at his throat, gripping the chain and container and lifting it, shaking, to his lips. Nothing coated his dry throat. There were more gunshots. His vision became clearer; the ground was grey and specked with blood. He was vaguely aware of his own moaning. Blackwater. The blackwater. More gunshots. Isabeau, was she alright? Of course she was. But he wasn't. Sure, he had felt a bit ill that morning, a bit feverish, but he had taken the blackwater, and had begun to feel better. He hadn't drunk all of it–impossible. But where was it? Certainly not in the vial weighing down his neck. Get up, get up, Greyson–he couldn't. It was too heavy. The whole of his chest burned and when he tried to move it was as though his innards rammed against his ribs, wearing them thin. They would crack. They would crack and it would burn worse, worse than this. What could be worse than this? His vision was fading, now, things were lighter and fainter and too faint to make out. He felt more weighing on him–something at his side. He was being lifted, partially. He tasted bitter liquid that poured out his lips–blood or blackwater? They tasted similarly, except the latter was more acrid.

"Greyson, can you walk?" 

No. He heard himself groan. More liquid. He was being lifted, again, all the way this time; his arm was draped over Isabeau's shoulders. He tried to steady his feet in a vain attempt to help her, but they did not move and bent under him. He could not feel them, anyway; all he could feel was the heat and the hot pain in his chest. 

They moved, somehow, out of the wreckage of battle and into some place with a bed. How could he have doubted her? Of course she would get him to safety. By the time he was in the bed the pain had lessened to the point where he could focus, at least, on what was in front of him, and it was her, her beautiful concerned eyes and parted mouth. She had not only killed every member of the ambush but whoever had snuck behind him; but her humanity was still here, obviously here, wonderfully here. And then she had rescued him, taken him to safety, stood next to him and here she was now, having saved him, concerned about him, about his life–very concerned, from the crease in her brow to her uneven breaths. Her duty ended at taking him here, wherever here was–impressive enough–but she had stayed here, however long it was, and she was looking at him now, with care and concern and he felt that she would stay overnight and the day after, if he hadn't awoken. 

"Isi," Greyson muttered, voice raspy. Her face did not change but she let out a deep sigh. Greyson tried to raise himself. 

"Isi, marry me." 

Her face changed, then. 

"Will–Will you?" 

"Greyson." He could not make out her tone, not really. He was not that aware. 

"You're the most lovely woman I've met," he said, words tumbling out, "in every way, truly." 

He saw her lips turn slightly upward, and felt slightly hurt–was that all? He would have asked her, but he looked away for a moment, to his chest, blinked, and she was gone. And the pain was back and sharp, but lesser than what it had been, at least. He was weak and tired and hot and he fell asleep. When he awoke later–however later–Isabeau was not standing over him. But Mallory was. Greyson could sit himself up with ease but he was still hot and sore. He put a palm to his forehead. In 200 years he had never been ill. Apparently, blackwater would heal stab wounds, but not whatever he had come in contact with. He would go see Tesla right away. Tesla knew how to handle such things, such new-age things. 

Sebastian was smiling wider than Isabeau had, though whether it was out of amusement or relief Greyson was not sure. 

"Feeling better, friend?" he said finally. His voice was comforting–so much so. Things were still hazy, Greyson thought. He nodded. 

"Much better." 

"I do believe you've fallen ill."

Greyson nodded. "I–I will not take anymore risks…I'll return in a few days, naturally."

"Ask me how I know." 

It was a smile of amusement. As if it could be anything else. "How?" 

"You must have lost your senses to propose marriage to a fellow knight–or to propose at all, in front of so many spectators." 

"Ah." 

The person he remembered was Isabeau, her eyes and her breaths and her smile. 

"You do realize, Sir Galahad, that it is against the rules of the Order of Her Majesty's Knights to pursue intimate relationships with anyone inside the–"

"I know, I know, I–yes," said Galahad, shaking his head. "Fever. Blood loss and fever." 

Mallory narrowed his eyes at him, still smiling. "Of course." 

"Sir Galahad, did I ever tell you about the lady Jane Abrams?" 

"I don't recall." 

"She was my intended when I joined the Order. It was put on hold after that. We began spending less time together–that was expected. To make it short–she left me. I tried to make her stay. But the death, and her fear of my dying–we couldn't be in the same room with one another without reminding the other of what we had lost. The humanity and the security that were lost–the ability connect wholly with someone else-well, I imagine it's even worse when it's between a comrade, when you see them dying before your eyes." 

Greyson felt faint. "God's blood, Malory." He lay back down. 

"At least there's the blackwater. Less death that way." Malory cleared his throat. "All that to say–"

"Sir Percival." 

Malory rose from his chair and bent his head deferentially. "Lady Igraine." 

He turned. "I'll leave you two alone." 

Igraine took his chair. "How are you feeling, Grey?" There was something in her hands. 

"Better. Much better," he said gruffly, his cheeks hot. 

"Sir Percival said you were feeling ill, so I brought you this–" he sat up and saw the loaf of bread she placed at his bedside "–from a bakery in the next town over."

"Thank you." Odd, but a gesture. One from her–from the next town over–that must have taken some time. 

She had not met his eyes yet, but rose slowly, brushing off her coat with her light, graceful palms. 

"I'll be going, then." 

"Isi–"

Greyson reached for her wrist. "Isi, I meant what I said. We could–we could defect, go to the new country, get jobs there and have a family–"

"You're still unwell, Greyson." 

He moaned and shook his head. "Aren't you weary of it all?"

"No," she said forcefully. "I've waited my life for this. You're not either, Greyson–just unwell."

He sighed. 

"I'm not leaving the Order," she said, looking at him. "Even so–such things aren't allowed, you know." 

"How would they know," he said indignantly. "How is it any different from–"

"Go to sleep, Greyson."

He was feeling tired. He would wait, he decided, and bring the subject up later.


	2. Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2

The following morning Greyson was, with the aid of Malory, transported to his home. 

"Get well soon, my friend. Don't let flights of fancy be your fall from grace." 

Greyson groaned and told him to hurry and leave him be. He reclined on his bed and took a deep breath. By the time his heart and breaths had slowed and his eyes began to fall, the door burst open and in came the boy, Tesla, holding a metal box that rattled as he took a step. 

"Good morning, Sir Galahad," he said brightly–too brightly. Greyson eyed the box cautiously. It was the color of blood. His stomach turned. 

"Good morning," Greyson said gruffly. 

"You're looking a bit pale," the boy said, pulling a chair from Greyson's dining table. His slacks were dark and tight on his thighs and he placed his large box over his lap. Greyson felt exceedingly hot.

"What is that?" 

The boy opened his blood-colored box and lifted a small blade that glistened in the light from the window. 

"If you would roll up your sleeve," Tesla commanded. 

Greyson recoiled, nearly falling off the other edge of the bed. He languidly positioned himself against his pillow. 

"Wh–What is that for?" 

"I'm going to make a small incision–very small–and place a bit of pox inside it."

"Is…Is that supposed to help?" 

Tesla nodded. "It's more of a help to your future self than it is your present self." 

"Then what's the bloody point?"

A headache was coming on now and it was so hot and Greyson just wanted to sleep. 

"Well, you don't want to be like this again in a month or two, do you?" 

Tesla's attempt at forcefulness was quite endearing and Greyson, with a sigh, began to lift the thin white fabric of his sleeve; it was difficult, as he had lost the ability to finely control his fingers. Tesla helped him, and Greyson mumbled a thanks. 

"It's not me that's come up with this," said the boy, removing a glass flask from the box and placing it on Greyson's bedside table. "A gentleman named Jenner–Edward Jenner–"

"I don't care," grumbled Greyson. 

"I'm sorry you don't feel well–" said Tesla as he began making an incision into the man's left arm. Greyson flinched and bit his tongue. He was not expecting such sharpness. 

"Just a small second one." 

Greyson reached for the blackwater round his neck. 

"Don't," said Tesla without looking up. "That will complicate things. The point is for your body not to heal so that it can learn to–"

"Get on with it," Greyson said, weakly waving his hand. Tesla hummed a high pitch and gingerly removed the flask's contents with forceps; they burned as they touched his skin. He could not suppress his moan. 

"Almost finished," said Tesla, rummaging through his blood-colored box once more and removing from it yellowed bandages that he wrapped gingerly around the entirety of Greyson's upper arm. 

"Is that it?" Greyson muttered, reclining. 

"It is," the boy said, closing up his box. 

"What about…" He made a spastic motion over his body. Whatever relief he had felt yesterday had been clouded by the memory of being stabbed; he had no such recollection of that pain today, and so he acknowledged to himself that he was feeling quite miserable. 

The boy smiled lightly. "For now, you need to rest. In a few days, things should be back to normal." 

Whether it was truth or said to quiet the disgruntled Greyson, he did not know. He simply wanted to be left alone to sleep, although his stomach sank when he heard the door shut. His arm burned and became magma on his skin when he lay on his side; so he kept on his back, supine. When he awoke Isabeau was there, but he was not sure how long she had been there, sitting in Tesla's seat. 

"Hello, Grey." 

Her smile was electrifying. He rose as much as he was able in response, but in that moment he had forgotten the state of his left arm and cringed, taking his weight immediately off of it and returning to his reclining position. 

"Not feeling better yet?" 

The slight drooping of her bright eyes and the dropping of the corners of her mouth were more than he could take.

"I–I am," he said more quietly than intended, for his voice was weak from lack of use. "It's this—Tesla's…"

"Ah, I see he got to you as well." Igraine smiled warmly and rolled up her sleeve slowly with her delicate fingers, revealing her thin wrists and the same sort of yellowed bandages higher up. 

"Such an intelligent idea. And yet it's common sense."

Greyson nodded blankly.

"I suppose most discoveries are that way," continued Isabeau. "I always wonder what life might be like if I chose to do research, instead of joining. 

"But that's foolish," she said, placing her hands in her lap. "It always comes back to fighting half-breeds. There's nothing I'd rather be doing."

Greyson nodded, wanting to add something salient but still caught in the haze of exhaustion. The silk of her voice was soothing and her words allowed him distraction from the headache that was spreading across his temples. 

"What about you, Grey? Have you thought about doing anything else?" 

He could hardly remember his life before the Order. He was silent for a long while, his brow furrowed. Finally, he said, "If I was not in this position…I suppose I'd be a teacher of some sort. History, perhaps." 

"Interesting, Grey. I wouldn't have expected that." 

He was not sure whether to take offense or not. 

"What made you join the Order?" 

Greyson searched his brain. "You tell me first." 

Isabeau smiled and her thin fingers crept up to the top button on her blouse. Greyson was momentarily breathless. The woman unfastened the button closest to her chin and spread the collar wide, white lace drooping. She lifted her graceful neck to reveal the dark, jagged scar shaped like a little leaf that had been trampled into the dirt by rough boot after boot. Each time he saw it he felt as though his lungs were being torn into by sharp and dirty claws; this time was no different. 

"I don't recall ever telling you how I came to have this," she said, looking down at him; relief came over him as the dark mark disappeared from view. Each time he saw it he wondered if she had received it while on duty with him, but was too ashamed to ask. 

"You haven't," he said, propping himself up with the right hand this time. 

"I'm assuming you want to hear it? I've been talking so much this morning."

It was still morning. "I never tire of hearing you, Isi." 

He thought he saw a faint blush color her cheeks. 

"There's not much to it, really. When I was a child—I remember it so clearly—it was the dead of night when I heard–something. The door of our room was open and Alastair was not in his bed; I went to Father's room and found him pinned down by a lycan. It must have been planned, an attack by an elder. I didn't know at the time. Of course I had to help Father, but there was nothing there to strike it with except for a candle. So, I–" she laughed "–I flung it at his back. He turned around and screamed–and he looked me in the eyes, and looked hurt—sad that I attacked him for trying to kill Father. He struck me, then, of course, but it was enough of a distraction for Father. He pushed the lycan away and grabbed me and shut the beast inside the room once we were out. 

"Then Father took me back to our room and locked me inside. I could hear the struggle, but he made it out alive–naturally. He came back to the door and told me to stay inside while he looked for Alastair. I fell asleep somehow, and Alastair was there when I awoke. But I don't think Father ever really slept after that. 

"I still don't know what happened to him. I asked Father once if they tried to take him–he wouldn't answer me." 

Greyson felt her questions burning him up. "That's quite the story, Isi." 

She nodded. "I saw the nature of the half-breeds that day—their violence. I knew I wanted to devote my life to the Order ever since." 

"So selfless," Greyson murmured. "There are other ways to help people."

"There are," she said, furrowing her brows. "But none are as satisfying." 

"How do you know?" Greyson asked, attempting to sit up fully. "Have you tried them?" 

"Have you?" she said with a small smirk. 

Greyson sighed. "Isi, I meant what I said. Let's leave tonight. Or tomorrow if you'd rather, or any time. It just has to be soon." 

Isabeau's face fell flat. "Grey. I appreciate that, but–" she took his weak hands "–but it's best for us to…We have our entire lives to do something else. Without the Order, we wouldn't have that at all. You'd be dead. I'd be an old spinster. And I doubt either of us would have even met each other, or would have done anything nearly as important with our lives." 

"Isi," he sighed, reclining but not letting go of her hand. "If you ever change your mind, just say the word and I'll arrange it all. Otherwise, I—I won't bring it up anymore." 

"Thank you, Grey." 

Isabeau smiled at him again, and he closed his eyes for a moment, sighing deeply. 

"You didn't tell me why you joined, Grey."

"I…" Greyson opened his eyes, letting out another sigh. "I can't remember."


End file.
